A Valentine from Harlequin

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    As Charlotte fought to regain her composure, James’s gaze meandered over her simple silk gown, lingering for the briefest of moments on the embroidery around the neckline—or her breasts—before returning to her blushing cheeks.
    Angered by his impertinent scrutiny, she quickly closed the doors behind her, shutting out the music heralding the start of a quadrille. She wanted no one to hear them, or come out to see what was going on. And she wanted to know what the long-absent James was doing on the Duncans’ balcony with her cousin, Dulcabella—besides the obvious.
    * * *
    Dulcie Duncan giggled and swayed, clearly the worse for the powerful punch full of rum, which was how their family had made their fortune, one large enough to overcome the stigma of having earned it in trade. The Duncan Distillery had even been granted a Royal Warrant to supply rum to the British Navy.
    “I just came out for a breath of air and he grabbed me and kissed me,” Dulcie explained with a sodden grin. “I quite liked it.”
    “Indeed?” Charlotte inquired as she regarded James, not troubling to hide her annoyance. “I daresay you did, for I have heard that the duke is quite accomplished in that, if nothing else.” She took hold of her cousin’s arm, intending to lead her inside. “Come along, Dulcie. I think you should bid good-night to your guests.”
    “Running away, are we?” James calmly inquired in his deep, husky voice -- the thing that distinguished him most from John. Otherwise, both men had the same dark hair, chiseled cheekbones, and brilliant blue eyes.
    Charlotte slowly wheeled around to face him. “I think if there is a person here who could be accused of running away, it would not be me, Your Grace.”
    She watched as her words brought, for the briefest of moments, a look of what might have been remorse to those bright blue eyes. Yet if the Duke of Broverhampton felt anything deep in his cold heart in response to her accusation—one she had been waiting years to make—it was quickly gone, replaced by the cool tranquility he had always possessed, even in his youth. John had been all fire and light and music; James had been dark and silent and cold as snow in January.
    Her cousin feebly yanked her arm out of Charlotte’s grasp, the action making her totter like a pile of teacups. “I want to schtay right here!” Dulcie protested as she grabbed on to James’s black waistcoat.
    “I think you should retire, cousin,” Charlotte said with a tone of firm command.
    Dulcie pouted and stamped her slippered foot. “I don’t want to.”
    “Dulcie, I really think you ought—”
    “Well I don’t!” Stamp!
    Out of the corner of her eye, Charlotte saw James’s lips jerk up into a smug grin, as if he was enjoying this show of defiance from the usually docile Dulcie.
    “Dulcabella, you should go before the ladies begin to gossip about the time you have been out here and with whom. Unless you want your season ruined before it is well under way, I suggest you go back into the ballroom, and preferably to bed. You have had too much punch.”
    Charlotte’s words finally seemed to penetrate Dulcie’s drink-befuddled brain. She swallowed hard, then lurched back into the ballroom.
    Charlotte was about to follow her when James barred her way. He reached back and closed the balcony doors. “Let me pass,” she ordered.
    He shook his head and stepped closer. “I have waited a long time to have a moment’s word with you.”
    She inched away from him, until her back was against the wall and the ivy covering it. The foliage wasn’t the only reason the flesh there tickled, as James came closer until his body was mere inches from hers.
    Summoning her courage, Charlotte squared her shoulders. She would not let James’s predatory attitude frighten her. “If the wait was troublesome, perhaps you should have returned to England sooner. There was nothing to prevent you, especially when you inherited your title and the family fortune.”
    “A fortune you did not get your greedy hands on, after all.”
    Charlotte gasped. “I was not marrying your brother for his wealth!”
    James’s face betrayed his skepticism. “No?”
    “Certainly not!”
    He sidled closer, trapping her between the wall and his broad-shouldered body like a doe run to ground between a cliff and a pack of dogs. “Then why did you agree to marry him?” he asked in a husky whisper.
    “Because…because I loved him!” She put her palms on